


all of your love is sunlight (sunlight, sunlight)

by laikais



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Fluff, M/M, They are so in love, it is disgusting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 13:12:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18851761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laikais/pseuds/laikais
Summary: achilles and patroclus, and a few moments of intimacy.





	all of your love is sunlight (sunlight, sunlight)

**Author's Note:**

> so of course I read the song of achilles and immediately have to write about it... and it ends up being the first thing i actually finish in two years (even if it’s.. very short) 
> 
> so, anyway, enjoy!

It has been twelve days without wind. We lay in the tent, sweat beading our foreheads, the midday sun beating down even through the canvas. His hand traces my collarbone, runs down my chest, draws swirls on my stomach. His mouth, hot and wet, presses slow kisses onto my thighs.

I drowse, desire growing slow and warm within me. I do not rush him. He takes me into his mouth and my eyes flutter close in pleasure. 

I pretend I do not feel the time we have slipping away by the second. I just hold onto this, his mouth, his hands, the slow, steady presence of his touch. I allow myself to pretend we have all the time in the world. 

 

During the war, he smells like blood, most of all. No matter how he bathes, swims in the sea, scrubs himself clean, it lingers, the metallic scent of it clinging to his hair, the red staining the lines of his fingernails, worked into crevices that cannot be washed away. 

I hate it. I try to pretend I don’t— he already knows well I do not like that he kills, I already know I must not— cannot reproach him for it. But it sours him, the smell of almonds and salt and sweat masked by the smell of glory, of honor, of death. 

It makes me sick, sometimes. His mouth against mine, and I taste the men he has killed. My hands comb through his hair and red crumbles into them, the remains of the lives he has destroyed. 

But one day, supplies arrive from Greece, and a package from Phthia rests in our tent. Even for Aristos Achaion, luxuries are infrequent, in a war. He opens the package with glee. 

Oils. Pomegranate and sandalwood. The scent fills our tent, heady and fragrant, and I am brought back to his small seaside room, the nights we spent there. 

He rubs them on his feet, and I smile at him. I feel like a child again. 

“I haven’t smelled these in years,” he says, and he seems younger, lighter. I feel full, of olive trees and dusty training fields and memories I have not thought of since we left Phthia. 

“I like it,” I say, and pull him into my arms. Blood is dried behind his ear. He smiles at me, radiant like the sun. 

“They sent figs, too. From my father.” 

We eat until we cannot eat any more. The room is sweet and our hands are sticky. I kiss him, and he tastes like war and fruit and memories. I love him so much I can hardly bear it. I am surprised it does not spill out of me, gushing out of my mouth and my eyes and my ears. 

 

He plays my mother’s lyre, one night eight years into the war. His voice is bright and beautiful. He sings late into the night. I sit at his feet and watch him. Something rises in me, floods me, until all I can see is him, illuminated by the flickering candlelight. 

His face is golden and his voice is warm, and his hair curls up a bit at the back of his neck. His lips part, and his voice rings clear as a bell. His fingers, rough and calloused from battle, pluck at the lyre with deftness and care. 

I cannot move, cannot speak, cannot think, the feeling fills me so. I simply watch, and let it overwhelm me, his beauty, the song he sings for me, the candlelight flickering across his face. 

He looks up, after a while, and his eyes narrow in concern. He stops playing, and reaches out, cupping my cheek. 

“Patroclus, what troubles you? Why do you weep?” 

His thumb wipes tears from my cheeks. He waits patiently for my answer, worry written across the lines of his face. I had not even realized I was crying. 

“Nothing,” I say softly, raising my hand to cover his. 

“Patroclus,” He says again. _Pa-tro-clus. _A rock skipping on the water. Orion’s belt, hung in the corner of the sky. The candlelight flickers across his cheekbones, the line of his jaw. Something is growing in my throat, my chest. His eyebrows knit together.__

__“I just love you,” I say. His eyes soften._ _

__“You will not lose me yet,” He promises. I swallow back the lump in my throat, push back the tears. He is still here with me, and so this is not the time to grieve._ _

__“I know,” I say, and I let him hold me, let his fingers trail through my hair._ _

__

__When I fell off a cliff and fractured my arm, skinned my knee, he had treated me so gently I had almost hit him, embarrassed and annoyed._ _

__“Are you sure you are okay to swim?” He had asked, brows knit together._ _

__“Yes,” I said._ _

__“Are you sure you can climb this tree?” He had frowned up at it, our favorite haunt, so easy to climb a child could quickly scale it._ _

__“Yes, Achilles.” I said._ _

__He did not wrestle with me, did not ask me to go pick berries with him, and when Chiron had us practice bandaging wounds, he had held my— uninjured!— arm so carefully it was as if I was made out of glass. I had stared at him, deadpan, and asked him if the loose bandages he had wrapped around my arm would do anything to stem blood. They were put on so light they barely even touched my skin, and he flushed, pulling them taught._ _

__“Are you sure you can join us on the hunt?” He asked a week after I had fallen. “Your knee—“_ _

__“Achilles,” I snapped. “It has not bled for days. I am fine.”_ _

__The look he gave me was so tragic, so long-suffering. Here he was, the best warrior in all of Greece, simply trying to take care of his dearest friend, and this was how he was being treated? It made me melt despite myself. I could never be angry at him for long._ _

__I shoved at him a little. “You are ridiculous.”_ _

__He just stared at me, his face the perfect picture of abject misery._ _

__I laughed, and tugged at his arm. “Chiron is waiting. I promise to stay away from any cliffs.”_ _

__His face broke into a radiant smile. “I see you will not humor me.”_ _

__I was already at the foot of the well-worn trail, my chest bright. “And I see you have no interest in being the first person to catch a rabbit.”_ _

__He darted in front of me, and plunged into the underbrush. He caught many more than me. He always did, but I did not mind. It was enough to just be with him, to see the beautiful coldness of him on a hunt, to see his incredible warmth as he smiled at me, illuminated by the sun._ _

__

__He kisses me before he leaves our tent, tears dripping down his face. My body is festering and the smell has almost become unbearable, but he does not care. He presses his lips to mine for the final time, and I do not feel it, do not taste his sweetness in my throat._ _

__He weeps, holds me tightly. My lips are cold and lifeless, and he still does not care. Patroclus, he says. I do not answer._ _

__He carries me out of the tent, water falling from his face. The Myrmidons line the way to the pyre, faces solemn. He places me on the pile of wood, and embraces me for a final time. Perhaps, if he were not a god, his hands would be shaking as they slide my eyelids shut._ _

__His hand rests in my hair, on my cheek. He presses his forehead to mine and my face becomes slick and wet with salt._ _

__They light the fire, and I burn, and still I do not find peace._ _

__He collects my ashes carefully, making sure not to leave anything behind. He never much cared about material things, but my urn is the finest his riches could afford._ _

__He fights for his death on the battlefield. I watch him, numb with exhaustion and grief. I loved him, and I died for it. He loves me, and he will die for it. It is a twist, the stars crossed, a cruel trick of fate._ _

__He twists out of the way of a sword and groans in agony. I want to look away, but I have no eyes to close. And somehow, I doubt I would have looked away if I could. I have been staring at him as long as I’ve known him. Even now, dirty, starving, desperate to die, he is the most beautiful thing in the world._ _

__

__I am thirteen, and his eye catches mine from across the room. I flush and look away, staring straight ahead and pretending I don’t see him._ _

__I sneak a glance a few minutes later. He’s still looking._ _

__

__His head lies in my lap, and my fingers stroke his hair. The underworld is cool and dark, and it soothes me like a breeze coming off the sea. He smiles up at me, radiant as ever. I kiss him, gently. He melts against me, like honey dripping from a honeycomb. I hum absentmindedly, the sound low and soft in my throat. His eyelashes flutter, somehow catching light that is barely there to be caught._ _

__Even in death, he is otherworldly, ethereal. But he is not from another world. He is here, solid and warm in my arms, and I am happy._ _

__He is the love of my life, and all my lives after. His head lies in my lap, and I smile until my mouth hurts. I cannot seem to stop._ _


End file.
